is to know a lunatic,
raver in regular clothing,
class clown too broken
for makeup, bruiser
with flailing fists,
trying to make contact
with skin you never touch.
How strange we must seem–
full of stuttering songs
and shy revelations,
muttering about syllables
and shade, tipsy
with rhythms that pulse
behind every third eye.
How frustrating it is
to speak with us–
constant leaks of languid
metaphor, bundles of similes
tangled as telephone wire.
I could tell you
to befriend us,
feed us through
our multiple hungers,
clothe us during slippery
phases of nightblind
madness. But I warn you,
what we have is
contagious–
a mutant strain
always evolving,
seeping in
through your eyes
to occupy your brain,
make your nights shivery
with unendurable ache,
that ever-decreasing faith.